


Harmony

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sting knows how to handle Rogue. He’s had years, now, to perfect the art." Sting and Rogue fall into harmony without even needing to try anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmony

Sting knows how to handle Rogue.

He’s had years, now, to perfect the art. Manipulation doesn’t come easily to him -- he’d prefer to charge straight in and deal with the fallout later -- but it’s worth it, to know what responses will catch the other’s breath just so, or where to touch to earn himself a tiny startled whimper. And Rogue knows, Sting can see the knowledge written under the soft curve of his smile and in the shadowed awareness in his eyes, and that makes it a game more than manipulation properly. It’s more that Rogue is an instrument, one that deserves to be played well, and Sting has made himself into the one person in the world who can do the other justice.

He’s doing a good job so far. Usually Rogue is hesitant about letting Sting ease his clothes off, shy and flushed under the blond’s gaze with a self-consciousness as foreign to Sting’s own mindset as breathing underwater. But Sting’s been careful, has slowly worked his kisses down from Rogue’s hairline to the faint scar across his nose to his lips, the line of his jaw, the underappreciated sweep of warm skin just under his ear. With the other’s hair tied up Sting doesn’t even have to try to see the edge of a smile on Rogue’s lips, doesn’t have to lean in close to catch the soft affection under the dark crimson in his eyes.

Not that that means he  _isn’t_  getting as close as he can. He pauses to ease Rogue’s shirt up and off -- it’s one of the oversized loose ones the other favors, the ones that make it look like he’s hiding under the cover of his own clothing -- and tosses it aside before he comes back in, replaces his lips back at the taut line of Rogue’s throat while the other angles his head sideways to give him better access. Fingers trace ticklish sensation up against his spine, skim the very edge of his high-cut shirt and draw a purr from his throat before he opens his mouth to touch the edge of his teeth to Rogue’s throat.

“If you leave a mark I’ll have to leave my hair down tomorrow.” It’s not a warning, not even discouragement as much as it is a statement; Rogue is even tipping farther to the side, offering more than he is retracting. But Sting  _likes_  the pale line of Rogue’s neck, the way he gets to admire it all day now instead of just when he has Rogue at home and stripped down to moonlight-white skin, so he heaves a sigh of understanding and slides his mouth down further, a few inches until he’s under the demarcation of the other’s collarbone.

“What about here?” he asks. His fingers fit in against Rogue’s waist, just above the outward line of his hips, and he  _could_  go lower and he  _wants_  to drag the other into his lap by force, but it’s supposed to be a seduction instead of a demand, and he’s appreciating the friction of Rogue’s fingers up his spine, the unusual exploration of fingertips skimming under the edge of his clothes.

“Mm.” A hand leaves his back, Rogue tips backward like he’s pulling away, but he’s just bracing himself, presenting his skin in a steep diagonal for Sting’s eyes and the room’s light at once. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make the permission explicit, but when Sting glances up Rogue is watching him with his eyes cast into nearly-black shadows from the cover of his lashes, his expression relaxed and certain of his control as if he’s royalty, as if Sting is a favored supplicant.

It turns Sting’s blood hot as he dips his head to Rogue’s skin, brings the sharp points of his teeth digging in a little farther than he intended. It’s nothing like enough to draw blood, but when he pulls back there’s the imprint of his dragon slayer heritage on Rogue’s skin, edging the bruise sucked into the canvas of white by his more-gentle lips. Rogue’s eyes are shut when Sting looks back up, his head angled back like he’s forgotten how to support the weight of his head, and Sting makes a tiny whimpering noise, appreciation drawn so desperate he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“ _Rogue_ ,” he says, making it into a plea in his throat, and comes in close for another kiss while he slides a hand down and sideways so he can hook his fingers in under the top edge of Rogue’s pants and press his thumb into the button at the front.

Rogue lifts his head, meets him closer than Sting expects so their lips and teeth catch together for a brief bruising moment. Even the undercurrent of hurt isn’t enough to more than fuel the burn of desire under Sting’s skin; everything is warm and wanting until he’s aching with the delay, until he doesn’t even want to take the time to properly strip Rogue down before he’s touching him. He can’t really fit his hand past the other’s waistband before he gets the button and zipper down, but he’s doing his best, pressing his fingers in against as much warm skin as he can reach, when Rogue’s hand leaves its exploration of his back to close on his wrist.

“Wait,” Rogue says, and Sting whines in frustration at this denial but stops instantly, without even thinking of disobedience. It’s so rare for Rogue to ask anything of him at all that he is always breathlessly anxious to please, to submit, to surrender unconditionally before he has even been told the terms.

“Yeah?” he asks after a moment when Rogue isn’t doing anything but holding his wrist, breathing warm and tempting against his too-close lips. “What is it?”

“I want --” Rogue starts, cuts himself off. Sting leans back an inch, not because he needs to see the pink climb into the other’s cheeks but because he wants to, because Rogue is always at his best slightly flustered. The fingers at his wrist loosen, pull away, and Sting knows he won’t get a straight answer even before Rogue looks away, and blushes darker, and says, “You should take your shirt off.”

“Okay,” Sting agrees, tugging at the fabric before Rogue has even looked back up at him. Sometimes he makes a show of this for Rogue’s benefit, peels the cloth up slow and deliberate so by the time he emerges Rogue is radiant with heat and open-mouthed with interest, but today his own anxiety for more outweighs his urge to tease, and he contents himself with stripping down to bare skin as rapidly as he can so he can reach out and replace his fingers at Rogue’s waist. “Better?”

“Mm.” Rogue mirrors Sting’s motion, sets his fingers against the blond’s waist before pushing up higher, sliding his palms in against the other’s skin and trailing heat in his wake like sunshine.

“What do you want to do?” Sting prompts, because pleasant though it is to have Rogue’s hands sliding over his shoulder and skimming against the side of his neck he’s been hard for nearly a half hour now and all the practice in the world has never made him more than average when it comes to patience. “C’mon, Rogue.” He’s teasing more than truly pleading, but when he shifts in to bump his hip harder against the other’s thigh the movement is entirely sincere. “I want to suck you off, do you not  _want_ me to?”

Sting’s close enough to catch Rogue’s reaction, certain enough of it that he lifts his gaze from the other’s mouth to his eyes in time to catch the convulsive flutter of dark lashes at his suggestion, the way Rogue’s lips part on a time unvoiced reaction before he composes himself. Sting is smiling when Rogue blinks himself back into focus, is certain that Rogue knows he saw that instinctive reaction as well, but neither of them comment while Rogue draws a shell of command back around him.

“I so,” he says, and Sting purrs in delight, leans in to lick just above the mark he left at Rogue’s collarbone while he reaches back out for the other’s pants. Rogue’s skin is hot, the fabric stretched tight across the hardness of his cock inside his jeans, and Sting is so caught up in that heated resistance he almost misses the last of the other’s sentence. “You need to take your pants off, too.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sting says. He can feel his control over the situation sliding out of his fingers as Rogue pushes back against him, as Rogue forms the words of suggestion without quite telling him anyway, and he’s happy to offer it up, to fall back from the other’s skin so he can attempt to focus on the almost-order.

He’s faster about getting his clothes off than Rogue is. It’s not like it’s a race, Sting knows rationally, but in practice he always rushes, strips himself free of the barrier of clothes so he can take advantage of his own freedom to distract Rogue from his own efforts with the button of his jeans. He’s even quicker this time, or maybe Rogue is actively delaying; by the time Sting comes back in to hum at his shoulder the other is barely pushing his clothes off his hips. Rogue tips his head away, laughs soft as his hands go still at the touch of Sting’s lips, but when the blond reaches for his hair he lets his jeans go to grab at the other’s wrist.

“No.” There’s enough sincerity in the word that Sting goes still, pulls away to watch Rogue’s face as he lets go and pushes his jeans off his legs. “Leave it.”

“Do I have to?” Sting is pouting, he can hear the childish whine in his voice, but for all that he likes watching Rogue’s neck during the day he loves the pattern of shadow spread loose over the sheets, likes to watch the way the dark strands cast Rogue’s features gentle and desperate as Sting works down over his body.

“You do.” Rogue glances sideways, offers a flicker of an apologetic smile; then he pushes his pants off, kicks them over the edge of the bed, and Sting’s thought process is effectively derailed by the temptation of skin in front of him. He was going to demand a better explanation, some indication of what Rogue has in mind, but his patience evaporates instantly, he’s dropping to curl in against Rogue’s waist to kiss at the faint line of a long-healed scar at his hip.

“You said I could do this, right?” he purrs, certain of Rogue’s agreement but stalling so he can feel the other shudder under his mouth, can feel the tension catching into Rogue’s hips and rocking him up off the bed and towards Sting’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Rogue moves, so smoothly for a minute Sting doesn’t realize he’s actually lying down. It’s a better angle anyway, all the warm skin under Sting’s mouth spread out so he can see the responsive shiver as his lips brush against Rogue’s hip, drag across his stomach and down so he can breathe against the other’s cock. That gets him a whimper, a tiny choked gasp as Rogue rocks up to press against his lips, and Sting is just starting to grin and open his mouth when Rogue leans in close and his tongue slides hot over the blond’s length.

Sting jerks harder than he intends, rocks across the bed and groans louder than he meant to, but Rogue is laughing, a sound of pure delight before his mouth is back against slightly safer skin, his teeth scraping gentle over the inside of Sting’s thigh. Sting gasps an inhale, can feel his thoughts slipping warm and out-of-focus, but he is in the middle of something important, he has to pay  _attention_. He manages a breath, pulls his focus back to his vision, and even as Rogue purrs against his skin Sting’s opening his mouth, taking Rogue past his lips so the other’s pleased hum breaks into a choke of pleasure. Sting doesn’t pull away when Rogue mirrors his motion; his just lets his moan melts into a purr, tightens his mouth to suck sensation against the other as Rogue’s tongue slides over his hot-flushed length and sends electric heat jolting all down his spine.

Sting’s never been very good at multi-tasking. He keeps having to pull his focus back to what he’s doing with his mouth, only maintains a rhythm and pressure for a moment before Rogue whines against him and drags all his attention away; then it’s all selfish pleasure, satisfaction rising warm under his skin before he realizes he’s not moving, that he’s gone still and panting around Rogue’s cock against his mouth. As soon as he starts moving the rising wave of pleasure fades off, his attention drawing away from his own skin and to the flushed heat of Rogue’s, until it feels like a dance, like he’s forming a harmonic rhythm with Rogue without even having to think about it. Rogue’s fingers brace at his hip, Rogue’s mouth slides slick and warm over him, and Sting keeps thinking he’s going to lose it, that his focus is going to vanish for good this time before he pushes the heat away again, forces his attention back to what he’s doing so Rogue whimpers against him and jerks under his touch.

Sting lasts longer than he expected, with the distraction of his focus, but even with that aid he can’t hold out indefinitely. It gets harder and harder to recollect himself with every attempt, and he’s pretty sure he’s losing his rhythm faster each time, but Rogue’s entire body is starting to shake, tension not relaxing even when Sting pauses his movement, and when Sting pulls away it’s only to gasp “Rogue?” and tighten his fingers at Rogue’s hip in warning. Rogue doesn’t pull back, just groans far back in his throat so Sting can feel the vibration all through his skin.

“Oh good,” he says, and comes back in one last time, shuts his eyes to cut out the distraction of his vision and tightens his mouth against Rogue’s cock as the burn under his skin spikes high and inevitable at last. He doesn’t know exactly what Rogue’s doing with his mouth, isn’t sure he would need more than to be breathed on at this point, and when he whimpers wordlessly he can feel all that building want in Rogue’s body go tight and humming with certainty. There’s a sound from the other, a choke or a warning or maybe just wordless pleasure, and Sting’s body flushes hot and shivering just as Rogue shudders and comes across his tongue. The bitter heat at his lips runs up against the blind satisfaction rippling out into his skin, and for a moment Sting isn’t thinking about anything at all, is just gasping a muffled groan around Rogue’s length in his mouth and clutching desperately at the sharp line of hip under his fingers.

After a moment he collects himself enough to pull back, to roll onto his back while Rogue shakily turns himself around to fall to the bed and fit himself in against Sting’s shoulder. He tastes like salt and warmth when Sting ducks his head for a kiss, the strands of his hair falling disheveled around his face even before Sting flashes a grin and tugs the tie loose. This time Rogue doesn’t protest at all, just smiles and shuts his eyes before tucking his head in to press his mouth just under Sting’s collarbone. Sting doesn’t say anything either, even when Rogue’s teeth catch at his skin and the soft brush of a kiss turns into the faint pressure of a rising bruise. The mark is low enough it’ll be covered by his shirt and jacket both, and the pleasure of Rogue marking him is nearly matched by the satisfaction of mirroring the other.

They just do things better together.


End file.
